


5 Times Crowley Refused to Admit He Was Sick + 1 Time He Did

by Ourladyofresurrection



Series: Writers Month 2019 [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Aziraphale calling Crowley ‘wily old serpent’, Crowley being a suck, Crowley/Aziraphale - Freeform, Day 2 of Writers Month 2019, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I Googled behaviours of sick snakes just for this fic, M/M, Sick Fic, Sick!Crowley, Worth It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 00:10:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20087584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ourladyofresurrection/pseuds/Ourladyofresurrection
Summary: Day 2 of Writer’s Month 2019: Hurt/ComfortOr in which Crowley is too proud to admit he’s come down with a cold.





	5 Times Crowley Refused to Admit He Was Sick + 1 Time He Did

**1.**

Crowley was known by many names— Servant of Darkness, Child of the Down Under, (the Other Down Under, not Australia), and Crawley— back in the Garden of Eden, that is.

He had even once been called Raphael. That was a particularly pleasant time before the Almighty threw him out like he was last week’s leftovers. But that was beside the point.  As colorfully as Crowley had come by many names over the centuries, he’d sparked some rather deep-seated thoughts of others, a reputation or niche, one could call it.

Hell expected him to have roundabout ways of doing tasks in a way that made it that he wasn’t really doing the aforementioned tasks well enough to be appraised or badly enough to be cast out.  But then again, Hell was a bit like the most outdated-school in terms of delinquents and expulsion-related transferences— once you reached the very bottom of the proverbial barrel, there wasn’t much else place to go. 

Heaven— well, that one was obvious. They hadn’t made any real semblance of an effort to hide how they truly felt about Crowley.

But Aziraphale, underneath his pompous, ineffably exhaustingly impermeable exterior, truly did hold high regard for the demon. He thought of him as many things; wily, insufferable, cunning. 

But the word ‘weak’ had never even crossed his mind when he thought of how he might ever describe Crowley to someone else.

That is, until now.

The demon was hunched over—more so than usual, that is— seated on Aziraphale’s far-too-plush couch that must have been around for centuries. The dust trapped beneath its cushions made a compelling testament to this not entirely untrue speculation.  His nose was red, serpentine eyes glassy and watery beneath the dark shades he hid behind, and he was sniffling more than Aziraphale had ever heard him sniff since the 19th century when Aziraphale first started indulging in Regency silver snuffboxes.  Being intuitive by default as an angel and decently versed in the many afflictions on Earth after a few short services serving as a temporary medic in a few wars, Aziraphale immediately knew what was wrong.

“My dear boy,” he said tentatively, “I do believe you’ve come down with something.”

“Oh, bugger off, Angel,” he muttered, “M’fine— go tend to your books or whatever it is you do around here.”

Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow at that last part, “I do say it’s quite a lot more than you do, my dear boy— lying there like a sack of potatoes, as humans might say.”

“Found a new slang word, Angel?”

Aziraphale grinned widely, firm tone dropped for only a moment, “Oh, yes! It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

Crowley just slouched further into the cushions, almost petulantly, and stared at Aziraphale through a small gap between his lenses and the top of his eye.  Though it was rather hard to tell when Crowley was staring, he didn’t blink much, being part snake and all.

“Oh, I see what you did!” he huffed, looking frazzled, “Well, get up and make yourself useful if you claim you’re well!”

The angel didn’t miss the way the demon’s shoulders sagged as he stood up and followed him through the aisles of the twisting bookshop, but decided against mentioning it.

Crowley would be fine.

* * *

** 2. **

Aziraphale had put him to work alphabetizing and sorting the books that always seemed to fall miraculously out of order while he tended to customers not too far away.

“Azzziraphaleee,” he heard from behind a nearby shelf.

“One moment, please,” he smiled at a customer, of whom he was trying to convince to not buy that first edition Oscar Wilde book please and thank you, and quickly miracled the door locked so he couldn’t try to make a run for it.

He made his way over to the tired-looking demon surrounded by publishings of Socrates and Shakespeare. 

“Well?”

The demon pouted, waving a hand, “N’ don’t know how to sssort them.”

Aziraphale sighed, his shoulders slumping down in exasperation, “Use the Dewey Decimal system, dear boy,” he supplied, disappearing once again— no doubt trying to track down the previous customer.

“Azzziraphaleee, I don’t know what that isss,” he hissed after him, his plea lost on the ears of the angel, who was far too distant to hear.

He could practically hear Aziraphale’s pompous voice in his head: ‘well, then, are you too sick to work?’

Crowley frowned to himself, “M’not sick,” he said to no one in particular.

The demon slunk back down on the floor and squinted blearily at the spines of the books, trying to be at least partially useful.

* * *

** 3. **

The third time that Crowley claimed he wasn’t sick was about twenty minutes later when Aziraphale went on his lunch break— an unnecessary, but indulgent part of the workday that the angel swore by.

Really, it was just an excuse to eat macaroons in the adjoining living room. 

Typically, he would pop a few streets down to try out the new fusion restaurants that seemed to pop up as abundantly as daisies in the spring, but today he figured he would flock close to the shop, given Crowley’s state.  So, there he sat, chiding himself for the crumbs that would surely appear between the cushions, later on, Crowley sunk deep into the opposite end of the couch, looking pitiful.  Aziraphale put his plate down on a nearby ottoman, taking a swig of orange juice, quirking a brow when he noticed Crowley staring glassily at him, gaze transfixed on his hand, or rather, what was in it.

“Can I have a sip of that?” he said, a little hoarsely.

Aziraphale complied, helping him take a sip and shaking his head knowingly, “You  never eat.”

The demon shook his head, “M’not eating. M’drinkin’.”

“And this sudden craving of vitamin C has nothing to do with being sick, does it?”

Crowley threw an arm over his face, mumbling, “M’not sick.”

* * *

** 4. **

The fourth time Crowley lied about being sick was later that afternoon. It was storming slightly, and Aziraphale had propped open a window to let in the nice rain smell. 

Sometimes to ward off potential buyers, he had to conjure up bad odors in the shop, so it was nice to air it out occasionally.

Crowley appeared like a rabbit out of a hat— well, like a rabbit would come out of a hat in one of Aziraphale’s magic shows; clumsily, unimpressively, and slightly endearing in nature.

“Sss’cold,” he hissed, shoulders almost to his ears as he looked murderously at the open window.

“You’ve never had a problem with that before,” said Aziraphale pointedly.

“Bulgerdash, I’m cold-blooded, you know that, Angel.”

“Crowley, dear, I believe there are some Jeffrey Archer books over there in some serious need of re-organizing.”

“_Jeffrey Archer?_ You don’t even_ like_ Jeffrey Archer,” he said, tailing Aziraphale as fast as he could muster.

It was true— Aziraphale didn’t like Jeffrey Archer. Then again, nobody really does, so it meant virtually nothing.

“You know, being cold is a sign of sickness in snakes,” Aziraphale pointed out, somewhat of a warning cadence to his voice.

“Jeffrey Archer. Right, got it.”

Aziraphale smiled to himself as he watched Crowley saunter away with a little more purpose than usual.

“And I’m not sick!” he yelled.

* * *

** 5. **

The fifth time Crowley’s ‘not sick’ facade started to falter was during a brief run-in with his angel.

Crowley was shelving some Sir. Terry Pratchett novels rather tediously when Aziraphale snuck up on him.

“Good choice,” he appraised, smiling as the man jumped, face falling immediately when the figure before him promptly disappeared.

Well, shrunk, more like it.

He heard a pissed-off sounding hiss and followed the sound all the way down to his feet, where he saw a rather confused looking small black snake. Could snakes look confused? 

The serpent flicked its tongue twice in a row before morphing back into Crowley, who looked a little woozy, sneezing profusely.

“Hate doing that,” he said a little dizzily, “always afraid I’ll forget how to turn back.”

Aziraphale placed a steadying hand on the demon’s shoulder, a sympathetic look on his face, “Are you sure you’re feeling alright, dear?”

Crowley rolled his eyes, but the angel didn’t miss the way he seemed to lean into the touch, “Oh, _shut up,_” he drawled, no real fire to his words, “I’m not sick!”

Aziraphale shrugged and left the demon to his own devices, who waited until he was out of sight before slumping against the wall.

He wasn’t sick.

* * *

** +1 **

Crowley didn’t admit to being sick until three hours later as Aziraphale was closing the shop, and the confession didn’t come in words.

Rather, the demon simply flung himself onto Aziraphale, who stumbled backward slightly before catching himself and clutching at Crowley’s back.

“Heavens, Crowley! What has gotten into you?” he admonished.

Upon hearing a congested sounding sniffle and feeling his body lean heavily into his own, he softened slightly, one hand supporting his weight while the other gently threaded through his hair.

“M’sick,” he moaned.

Aziraphale shook his head, tsking under his breath, “Never would have guessed.”

“Ssshut up, Angel,” he groaned, “m’ a demon, m’ fire and brimstone, I’m the darkness in the night—“ 

His voice cut faltered slightly as Aziraphale bent his knees, swooping an arm beneath them before picking Crowley up bridal-style and leading him to the couch.

“I know, darling.”

“M ’not nice, nice is a— a— achoo!—four-letter word, ngk.”

“Shh,” Aziraphale pacified him, placing him down gently on the couch, pressing a hand to his temple, “why, Crowley, you’re burning up.”

The demon scoffed, sprawled across the cushions, “Thanks for caring enough about my ego to feign surprise, Angel.”

Aziraphale sat down next to him, feeling significantly more flighty and concerned than he was moments earlier. Perhaps he shouldn’t have let Crowley work as hard as he did and ignored his protests.

He let his hand drop down to his cheek, where it stayed, thumb absentmindedly stroking under Crowley’s eye, his skin heating up even more at the gesture.

“Yes, but, Crowley— you are a cold-blooded creature, you really shouldn’t be catching a fever. Demons can’t even  _get_ sick!”

Something flared in Aziraphale’s eye that looked like a suspiciously lot like guilty realization, “Unless...”

“Unless  _what__?_” Crowley croaked out, sounding a bit more demure with the angel in such close proximity to him.

“The Holy Water,” he breathed.

Crowley hissed instinctually at the words.

“The Holy Water— obviously, loads of it could kill a demon, we saw what happen to poor Ligur, after all—“

Crowley grimaced.

“Do you think, perhaps, that trace amounts of it could make a demon sick?”

“But when would I have been exposed to trace amounts of—oh.”

He and Aziraphale looked at each other, saying in unison, “The body swap.”

Crowley hissed in annoyance, growling, “Those damn Trials, that wanker _Michael_—argh!”

“Now, now, calm down, dear,” Aziraphale soothed, shaking his head, “don’t be so dramatic, it’s not a death sentence. I myself have seen many humans afflicted by the common cold. All you need to do is increase your vitamin C intake and stay  warm .”

Crowley scrunched his nose up, “Eugh— wasn’t that the cure for scurvy?”

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale said, “perhaps you’re right. Well, I suppose I could break open those healing herbal tea recipe books.”

Crowley made a face, not unlike the one he made the first time he and Aziraphale got drunk and started talking about whales.

“Better not, you have no idea how many herbal teas have thyme in them— don’t need to discorporate now on top of this. Something tells me the authorities wouldn’t be so kind.”

The angel huffed in defeat, “Well, then how am I supposed to help?”

“Stay,” the said embarrassingly fast. Well, embarrassing for him, that is. For Aziraphale, it was heartwarming, face warming too, for that matter.

“I...need the heat. Your angelic aura or whatever has soothing powers or something, ‘s a fact,” he added hastily.

Aziraphale mutely opened his arms in invitation, to which Crowley leaned heavily into, burying his face in his chest and sighing audibly when Aziraphale started to gently pet his hair.

“Why Crowley,” he grinned, overcome with giddiness, “I do say you’re turning soft.”

“Oh, shut up,” the demon grumbled but nuzzled closer into his neck.

“Wily old _serpent_,” the angel cooed affectionately.

“Glorious_ bastard_ of an angel,” the demon mumbled in response.

And there, snug against Aziraphale’s soft sweater, Crowley decided that perhaps there were perks to being sick after all.

**Author's Note:**

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